


B L I S S

by SentimentalDefect



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral, PWP, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentimentalDefect/pseuds/SentimentalDefect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Aren’t you going to wish me happy fathers day?” </p>
<p>shameless, shameless, self-indulgent smutty-ass smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B L I S S

This is bliss. 

Her fingers tangle in the sheets, mouth sliding into a perfect “o” as she gasps into the air, body clenching decadently, wonderfully, completely, and yes, yes, there, right there, and the world is reeling before her until suddenly it isn’t anymore. She sucks in a breath, struggles onto her elbows to look down at him, confused. 

He watches her, hands still clamped firmly against her thighs, lips warm and wet and glistening as he stares with ancient, calculating eyes. 

“Aren’t you going to wish me happy fathers day?” His words tumble through her, voice dark and smokey and sweet like molasses, and she can’t help but tremble, collapsing back into the sheets. 

“You don’t have any children.”

His breath tickles between her legs (a chuckle? a sigh? she can’t tell) but she feels his scalding gaze even through closed lids. 

“Don’t I?” 

The words hang between them, evaporating into the cool night air into nothingness, a whisper, a memory already forgotten as his tongue delves inside her and she feels herself beginning to slip, hands balling into fists as she indulges in the bittersweet ache of him, of his callouss, burning, torturously cruel will. His thumb caresses the inside of her leg (and it’s funny because she never imagined Francis to be the sort of man to “caress”) but his gentle touch is overwhelmed by the unrestrained need she feels between her legs, by the roaring waves of power that pour from his lips and drives him deeper and deeper into her as she squirms and groans and whimpers like a child. 

He owns her.

She feels herself tightening beneath him as she reaches the peak, her breath hitching, heart pounding as he works her faster, firmer, tongue and fingers and teeth pushing her to the edge. His hands clutch at her hips, bruising fingers holding her down, and she arches off the bed, hands flailing madly at nothingness. She lets out a whine, hips bucking against his mouth as the world grows silent, the fire in her belly rising to near agonizing proportions, until—

It takes her a moment to register what has happened, to understand why he has stopped doing those delicious things between her legs and why she isn’t moaning with pleasure from the bliss she was so dangerously close to not twenty seconds ago. Sweaty and breathless, she pulls herself from the throes of pleasure, not bothering to look up as she pants into the sheets. 

“What happened?” She finally manages, heart still pounding, “Why’d you stop?”

Francis says nothing, still and quiet as a mouse at the foot of the bed, except his presence could not possibly less mouse-like than it is at the moment. She can always feel him watching, always sense his presence like a scent in the room, a change of pressure on an airplane. As if it takes the additional pressure to realize how ordinary everything had been before. He isn’t loud, never obtrusive, but always there, always brooding, always watching. A lion waiting to pounce. 

“What happened?” She repeats, sitting up, still breathless. She’s slightly irritated to be honest, and his complete and utter stoicism is not well-respected when she’s laying spread naked on her own bed. She’s suddenly rather self-conscious, and moves to tug down her nightgown, but is met with a firm hand holding her back. 

“No.” His fingers tighten over her own, not painful, just firm, his huge palm over her little one, both planted urgently against her thigh. He rises, towering above her, and she realizes just how much larger he is, how much stronger, how much older. It doesn’t bother her- the age difference- and honestly she’s never thought of it as any more than a gap in experience. He was here to teach her, to school her in subjects that had never been breached before. He was here to show her things. 

He moves to straddle her thighs, looming grandly above, and she can feel him, hard and firm against her thigh. You’d never know from looking, never sense the need, the excitement she can instill in him, the way she can make him shudder, make him moan, make him ache. From looking, you would almost think they were in a meeting. Something strategic, yet dull. A chore. But she knows this isn’t true. Underneath it all, she knows he needs this just as much as she does, and that they will both be more than satisfied when it’s all over. She grinds against him, slowly yet pointedly, and he sucks in a breath, eyes closed for a fraction of a second. 

He won’t rush it though, he’s very patient. Agonizingly patient. 

She snakes a hand down to rub against the growing bulge in his trousers, firm strokes, palming languidly. He takes another breath, hardly audible, but Zoe glows with satisfaction, with the knowledge that this is all her doing. She undoes his belt, releases him from his clothing. He’s rock hard and heavy, blushingly pink in the dull light, and she begins her gentle ministrations, long strokes made smooth with a little lube. He’s big, yet she likes letting one hand do all the work, it leaves the other free to guide him, point him in the right direction as she watches him shudder as she speeds up. 

She watches intently, carefully measuring his reactions as she strokes him. She’s become attuned to the subtle things: a twitch of the mouth, a nearly-invisible sigh whispered out between labored breaths, the faint sheen of perspiration at the hollow if his neck. He’s not a screamer per say, doesn’t whine and moan like the other boys did, doesn’t groan and pull and grunt like some sort of animal, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. She loves watching him slip, seeing that great mask of poise and conceit crack for a split second as he comes and clenches her in white-knuckled need, almost desperate, and she feels herself swell with pleasure at the thought that she was the one to do that. 

He twitches in her hand, and she can feel the white-hot need radiating from his very core. She strokes a few more times, increasing pressure, speed, pushing him closer and closer to the edge as he swells, pre-cum wetting the sheets. She licks her lips and he watches her through half-lidded eyes, and together they rotate in unison so she is on top, wiry limbs wrapped around his, and she takes him into her mouth without further complaint. He gasps a little as she grazes his head, tongue teasing him as he pulls her closer, tighter, and she takes him in all the way without question. She swirls his tongue lazily across the tip, cheeks hollowing as she alternates between deep and shallow, hard and harder, and she feels him melt under her, sweet as pie. She knows they’re getting close, and she wastes no time in picking up the pace, savoring him like a fine wine as she sucks faster, mouth and hands everywhere all at once and then- yes. 

He bucks beneath her, head thrown back in sheer ectasty, and she swallows obediently once, twice, three times as he comes in her mouth until they are both free to speak again. Francis rises slowly, eyes regaining their usual smirk as he takes her in, pink-cheeked and swollen lipped between his bare legs. She brushes the hair from her eyes, wipes her mouth with the sheet. 

“Happy father’s day.” 

He stares at her for a long while. 

“Get on your back.” He finally says, eyes wickedly inviting, and she does.


End file.
